


Lumière de ma vie

by KareliaSweet



Series: Illumé [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anatomical Metaphysical Weirdness, Bottom Will, Codependent Fluff, Dominance, Established Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, Murder Husbands, Possessiveness, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Finale, Smut, mild dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:59:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5335019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KareliaSweet/pseuds/KareliaSweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will returns to Hannibal after achieving closure with Molly and finds a very possessive husband waiting for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lumière de ma vie

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece to [Ville-Lumiére](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5324417). You don't have to have read it, but I would imagine it helps.

He has been gone for seven hours and twenty three minutes.

Hannibal looks at the clock.

And nineteen seconds.

_Twenty. Twenty one. Twenty two._

Will said he would be back within eight hours, and Hannibal had no reason to doubt him, but he drove himself to despondency within the first hour. Everything in his mind since has been a case of diminishing returns. Every fragment of doubt sharpened, every whispering fear amplified.

He had put a record on, listened to Mozart, then Tchaikovsky, then Wagner, then Mozart again. Now he listens to the soft cracking of firewood as it burns, watches the dogs huff softly in sleep. Hannibal feels a foolish pang of jealousy for their lack of mental anguish. They seem more assured of Will's return than he is, and they've been known to tear the house to pieces if he's gone for more than a day.

Hannibal hasn't resorted to such destruction yet, but give him time.

Seven hours and twenty four minutes.

_Ten. Eleven. Twelve._

He sips from his tumbler of whiskey, lip curling at the taste. He would have much preferred wine to calm his nerves, but whiskey carries the scent of Will, and with it the ghost of the press of his mouth. One of the dogs, Genevieve perhaps, whimpers in her sleep. Hannibal feels the foreign urge to pet and soothe her, but his melancholy roots him deep in his armchair and nothing will shift him except the return of his husband.

His husband. A silly title, meaningless in all ways except the one that matters the most to them both. He wonders when he had grown so foolish, so dependent. When had his happiness so deliberately entwined itself with another's? He sips again, thinks of blue eyes that pierce, and smiles. When, indeed.

Since the moment those eyes had first pierced him. Every second since he has been borrowing his heart from Will Graham. Every minute since he is grateful that it hasn't been squeezed dry between delicate fingers.

There are times he has come close, years even, when Hannibal has been forced to operate on meager threads of sinew alone, his blood pumping shallow and weak. Still, Will has always breathed life back into it, and now he holds his heart as a treasure, gleaming and precious. Daily he brings it to his lips and drinks gently, breathes the life from his mouth and passes it to Hannibal's, nourishing, healing.

Loving.

Seven hours and twenty five –

_Click_

The first of the latches catches and unlocks, then the second. The third slides free and the door swings open, bringing with it life and relief and the scent of... violets.

She touched him.

He let her touch him.

And the greatest offense: _he touched her_.

The dogs are up and on their feet, lolling tongues and thudding paws. They lick and whine and greet with the unreserved joy of simple beasts. Will laughs with them, appeasing them with fond head rubs and lulling their frenzy. They calm in increments. Hannibal does not. He sits, fingers tracing the rim of his glass, staring into the fire. Anger glides liquid through his veins like mercury.

"Hey," Will says fondly. His voice is a balm but Hannibal has no wish to soothe his burns.

"You reek of her," he tells him, the words clipped and bitter.

Will sighs.

"I know, I do." He crosses the room and stands behind Hannibal, knowing better than to touch when his hackles are so visibly raised. "She hugged me, it was... unexpected."

"You know how I feel about others touching you, Will." Hannibal cranes his head over his shoulder. Will looks genuinely repentant, at least, but it is not enough.

"I believe I told you that you weren't to touch her."

Will's brow quirks a sliver. "And I believe I told you that you were being absurd."

Hannibal inhales sharply, and in one elegant movement he stands and turns to face his insolent boy.

“You disobeyed me,” he remarks, hands twitching behind his back and eager to slap, “what is to be done about that?”

Will meets his eyes, reading the disposition of his lover with ease. With gracefulness, he bows his head, folds his hands and molds himself into an entirely penitent creature. "I'm sorry, Hannibal" he says softly, "please forgive me."

Clever boy.

"To grant forgiveness," Hannibal purrs, "one must first be punished."

He feels rather than sees the spark in Will's eyes.

"How do you feel I should be punished?"

The first blush of arousal scents the air and Hannibal’s mouth curves for an instant before re-drawing into a firm line.

"Your clothes, they carry her stench. Take them off and burn them."

He gestures to the fireplace. "Now."

Will obediently removes his coat, untucks his scarf, fingers moving swift and quiet.

"Shoes too?" he asks, and says a small prayer that Hannibal's ire hasn't been fully ignited. He really likes these shoes.

Hannibal smirks at his spoiled husband.

"You may keep the shoes," he acquiesces.

"Thank you," Will says with over pronounced gratefulness. He sets the shoes carefully aside. "You are very good to me."

"And yet you abuse my good favour with your disobedience. Terrible, cruel thing."

He watches Will strip in the quiet, flames licking their shadows over his pale skin. He feeds each garment to the fire, watching the fortune Hannibal has spent on him go up in smoke. It is a shame, he thinks, for such finery to go to waste, but he knows that when Hannibal has meted out his punishment he will procure another more extravagant wardrobe for him immediately.

Oh, he loves him.

When Will stands bare before him, Hannibal moves to touch, just slightly, the press of his thumb against his chin.

"Shall I bathe?" Will asks, "remove the scent completely?"

"No," Hannibal replies, "It would be best if I marked you myself." He brushes their lips together, brief and faint. "Reclaim what is mine."

Will tilts forward for a more substantial kiss but finds himself denied.

"No one could ever take your claim," he breathes.

"Prove it," Hannibal steps clear of him and jerks his chin at Will in instruction.

"On your knees."

Will obeys readily, sinking slowly to the carpet with his eyes set on the beast before him. It is a far cry from the clawing, mewling thing Will had left behind that afternoon, but Will can feel both sides of Hannibal just as clearly. His feral desperation is readily apparent in the dominance he asserts now, both facets of his consuming love and equally arousing.

He rolls Hannibal’s words on his tongue, tastes them. _Mark_. _Claim_.

In their lovemaking, it is Will who claims, Hannibal who surrenders, who bends. Hannibal blooms for him in ways that Will had never expected, at once tender and savage, but always open for him. Will has wondered, fleetingly and less so, how it would feel to have Hannibal claim him. It frightens him as much as it thrills him, and he feels himself shiver despite the crackling fire so near.

“Are you afraid, Will?”

Hannibal is lazily unbuttoning his shirt cuffs, eyes challenging. Will lifts his head in a show of proud defiance.

“No.”

Hannibal laughs mirthlessly, a glint of teeth flashing.

“An unwise decision, when you don’t know what is yet to come.”

He folds his sleeves up with neat precision, then slides a hand through Will’s hair. Will leans cautiously into the touch, unsurprised when fingers take hold and tug sharply. Hannibal jerks his head back, pulling his throat into a taut line.

“I should mark you now, claim you hard and leave you wanting ten times over.”

A little pant escapes Will’s parted lips. “You could.”

Hannibal tugs a little harder, pleased when it knocks a soft grunt free.

“I could. I might still perhaps. Let us see how well you beg first.”

He releases him with a shove and crosses the floor to sit in his armchair, facing Will’s trembling nakedness.

Beautiful. Breathtaking. About to be even more so.

“Beg for my forgiveness.”

Will licks his lips and pulls his back straight, arms folded behind him.

“Forgive me, Hannibal. Please forgive me for disobeying you. For betraying you. I’m so sorry I let M – I let her touch me.” Hannibal’s eyes flare at the near-mention of her name, and Will bows his head in submission. “Forgive me for leaving you. Forgive me for allowing anyone’s touch but yours. I belong to you and you alone.”

“Again.”

“I belong to you,” Will says, meaning it entirely and without reservation.

“A good start. Now,” Hannibal mouth draws up and he lets himself taste each word. “Beg with your mouth.”

Will raises his head, watching as Hannibal shifts his knees further apart in clarification. He begins to draw himself up to stand and thinks better of it, pushing forward instead and planting himself on all fours. Slowly, deliberately, he crawls.

Hannibal still has some grasp yet left on his self-control, so he does not moan aloud at the sight of his husband wantonly crawling across the floor, but he burns to do so all the same.

“Good boy,” he says instead, leaning back as Will grasps each of his ankles. Firm hands slide up his calves to his knees and hold, pressing from outward to widen him further before moving sinuously up his thighs and squeezing the firm muscle underneath. Will’s fingers make quick work of the fly of his trousers and pull him free. It is laughable how hard Hannibal already is from this alone, from words and demands and the barest touch besides. It is shameful that the sight of Will’s naked and submissive body is enough to reduce him to this.

There is still so much further to go.

Will’s hand grips him hot and warm, thumb caressing little wet slips over the tip. Hannibal encircles his wrist firmly and shakes his head in reprimand.

“I said with your mouth, Will. Can you not take the simplest instruc-”

His throat closes hard over the last consonant as Will’s mouth closes over him, hot, lush, and soft. Full lips wrap around him and plunge, tongue pressing silky against his shaft as he takes him deep, deeper still. Hannibal watches in marveled delight as Will removes each hand from his thigh and, with an exaggerated flourish, lifts his arms and tucks them behind his back, his mouth never leaving Hannibal’s cock.

Will sucks in long flourishes from root to tip, pausing to lick teasing circles over the head, tracing his way back down with the tip of his tongue over the sensitive vein that runs flushed and delicate. He opens his mouth wider, inviting Hannibal further, letting him thrust up against the back of his throat as breathy gasps spill from him. Will knows how badly Hannibal wants to moan for him, knows by heart all the depraved and needy sounds he wants to make, but his self-control has not frayed enough just yet, so instead Will fills the air with the wet and filthy sounds of his sucking. He feel Hannibal’s hips moving against him, fucking into his mouth with tight little jerks, and he seals his mouth around the base and hollows his cheeks, lips holding firm. As Hannibal sinks down, Will relaxes, mouthing sloppy kisses over his cock, worshipping with the idolatry of his tongue.

“Enough,” Hannibal says, sliding a hand into his hair to still him. Will slips him free from his mouth but does not move beyond a tilt of his head, resting his cheek on Hannibal’s thigh. He sighs in contentment, his breath hot against the twitching cock a hair’s breadth away.

Hannibal allows the insouciance, relaxing into their arrangement for a brief moment, stroking a hand through thoroughly mussed hair. His fingers float down to trace Will’s lips, reddened and ripe. Will sucks Hannibal’s finger into his mouth and hums luscious around it.

“Mnnh,” Hannibal grunts, shaking the hazy cobwebs from head before he is completely spellbound. He pulls Will to his feet, standing with him.

“Undress me,” he instructs, harsher than he needs to, “then get on your hands and knees.”

Will nods silently and obeys. He wants to tease, to slide fabric sinuously over Hannibal’s skin, draw out the pleasure of unclothing him and revealing the well-muscled lines of his body. However he is also hard as nails and still holding onto the hope that he may get to come this evening, so he moves in a flurry of fingers and buttons, careful not to tear but with little regard for wrinkles or creases. When Hannibal is left standing in his briefs, Will sinks to the floor and takes the waistband between his teeth, hooking thumbs in the sides to assist him. He draws slowly down, nose grazing the velvet hardness beneath, and Hannibal lets his first moan of the evening escape. It will not be his last.

Will smiles secret and triumphant against Hannibal’s calf, helping him step free and then turning himself on his knees, splaying his palms over the floor and presenting himself. He spreads his thighs deliberately wide and drifts his eyes closed, wandering into Hannibal’s mind so he can see himself.

Months in and it still knocks him off guard when he allows himself to feel the full weight of Hannibal’s love. It ties around him in flourishing ribbons and squeezes the air from his lungs. It strokes at his throat with strange fingers and sinks into his throat, pulling his heart from his chest and through his mouth, presenting it before him and declaring _See? Do you see how very beautiful you are? Do you see how terribly I love you?_ And every time, ever so gently, his heart is placed back inside him with gratitude, with veneration, with tears that come from a place beyond water.

It is just the same now, even with Will on his knees, obeisant and waiting to be defiled. It is so easy to submit like this when he sees himself as Hannibal does, sees his beauty through Hannibal’s eyes. He tells him of his beauty daily, with words and more besides, but to feel it so intimately is indescribably good. It is simple and real, even with the fevered obsession that feeds it, in truth even more so.

Will slips his mind free once more, returning himself to the warmth of the fire and the heat of Hannibal’s body so near. He is glad to give himself to Hannibal in this way, knows that he needs this, has seen now what the display of his submissive body reduces him to.

Hannibal is silent, watching the lines of his husband’s body curve, muscles rippling and tensing for the want of his touch. He smiles in unabashed adoration.

“You have been so obedient for me, Will. Would you like your reward?”

“Yes,” he shudders beneath him, “yes please.”

“You know what to do,” Hannibal says, his voice low and caramel-thick. “Beg.”

Even though further clarification isn’t necessary, he wants to say the words, wants to see the tremors that quake through Will when he utters them.

“Beg for my cock.”

He is not met with disappointment. Will shivers thick from nape to toes and groans softly at the obscene command.

“Please,” Will breathes, throat knotted thick with lust, “please put your cock in my ass. I want to feel you inside me, Hannibal. I want you to claim me, mark me as your own, brand me. Show me I belong to no one else but you.”

Tears are leaking from him and he lets them drip, lets Hannibal see the madness he has brought him to the edge of.

“Please, Hannibal, please fuck me. So deep that I forget where either of us begin. So hard that I won’t be able to walk. Bruise me, fill me, please, please I can’t-”

His words cut sharp and fall in his throat as rough fingers enter him. Lubricated with little more than his own spit and luck besides, Hannibal presses in without hesitancy, stretching, pushing him to pliancy and drawing no quarter.

“So eager,” Hannibal murmurs softly into his shoulder, mouthing the outline of a kiss. “I think perhaps I should have claimed you long before this.”

“You have,” Will chokes out, “You do. Every day. I love you.” It is a plea, a confession and prayer all at once, said sparingly between them but easily felt. Hannibal makes a pained sound at the words and clutches Will’s hip with his free hand. Will can already feel the bruise.

Warmed and wet, Hannibal slips another finger inside, working fast and merciless to stretch him open. He strokes upward, seeking and finding, and Will cries out in sweet relief at the touch. He strains to push himself back onto Hannibal’s fingers, but the hand on his hip stays him, pinning him down and forcing him to endure this pleasure but no more. Not until Hannibal deems him worthy of receiving it.

Hannibal watches his fingers disappear inside his lover, watches his thighs tremble and his shoulders shake. He knows he is so close to coming now, untouched as he is, knows that a cruel twist of his fingers rubbing just a little harder _there_ would send him spinning and spiraling, but it isn’t time for him. Not yet.

Rearing to his knees, Hannibal releases Will’s hip to take his aching cock in hand, fingers giving him a final stretch before he pulls them free.

“I am going to put my cock inside you now, Will,” Hannibal says, relishing the hissed _yes_ in response. The words would sound clinical from any other’s lips, but when Hannibal utters them they sound downright sinful.

He wets his hand with lubrication and slicks himself, pressing himself against Will’s opening, pink and puckered and pliant for him.

“You will not come until I say,” he warns, “do you understand?”

Will nods mutely, sweat pooling at his brow. He is so, so ready.

“I will not be gentle,” Hannibal says, and, true to his word, he thrusts deep and hard.

They both cry out in shock, in relief, in pain and pleasure both.

To say it is exquisite would belittle the unnamable feeling that torrents through them both. Countless times they have joined together, but never like this. Never has Will let himself surrender so completely, never has Hannibal allowed the savagery of his love to drive him so fiercely. Hannibal is consuming him, engulfing him, swallowing him whole and rebirthing him as a creature of his devotion. Will feels like a star at the birth of the universe, atoms splitting and reforming to create something wild and monstrous that has never before existed, never shall again.

When Hannibal moves inside Will, the earth moves with them, entirely without volition. They are steering the cosmos now with blood and sweat and holy obsession. Hot tears fall against Will’s skin as hands clutch and tremble. He doesn’t hear Hannibal’s pledge of love so much as he feels it, the words tattooing themselves between his ribs and across the most secret part of him. If Hannibal tore Will’s heart from its moorings at this moment he would survive it, because Hannibal’s heart has already transplanted itself inside Will’s chest and it beats with the force of a newly created sun.

This is not sex, it is communion, a worship unto each other, their bodies both offered up as sacrament.

“Hannibal,” Will rasps, throat torn raw from his ecstatic cries, “Hannibal.”

It’s the only word left in the world, the only one that matters.

Hannibal moves faster, harder, thrusting relentless, driven by the urgent need to plant himself so deep that he can take root and never leave. Never leave and never be left again.

“I will never let you go,” Hannibal swears, “not in this lifetime or the next.”

Unable to speak more, Will shakes his head, falls forward into his elbows and presses his cheek in the carpet, taking and taking as he gives and gives.

“Yours,” he manages to slur out, and then just “love,” both endearment and promise.

That _love_ is the last little sliver of all Will had left to offer until he himself was empty, and it sends Hannibal hurtling into oblivion. He snaps his hips forward with a jerk, scrabbling and clutching and tugging his arms under Will’s shoulders. He pulls him up and against him as he comes, pressing their bodies so tightly together that nothing is between them except sweat and electricity. He pulses his release hot and hard and slips a hand down Will’s chest to circle his cock and pull him over the edge with him. He doesn’t even touch before Will is coming too, apology dying on his lips as he spills across Hannibal’s waiting hand, roping thick and heavy.

They collapse onto their sides, spent and drained, sticky and sated and both so, so loved.

Will feels raw, like his insides have been scooped out and he is a husk that is drying in the sun. Yet he also feels full, full of light that shines through the broken cracks and casts glinting beams across shadows within him that have remained untouched for years. He feels Hannibal gently hum a kiss over the nape of his neck and arches into it, curling fingers over the arm that is now wrapped around his middle.

He doesn’t say a word, knows there are none that would suffice. Instead he bends within the curve of Hannibal’s embrace so that their mouths can meet, kissing slow and lazy.

Hannibal doesn’t let him go, doesn’t uproot himself, his hands seeking to cover every inch of Will’s skin, even the parts drying stiff with release. Will is _his_ now, more than he has ever been, and Hannibal owns every part down to his soul.

It is a fair trade, he supposes, since Will has kept his in possession for so many years.

When they regain the strength to move, Hannibal lifts him into his arms and carries him to the shower, adorning his face with soft kisses as he cleans him, nuzzling with his nose as he towels him dry. Will allows the preening, seeks into each touch and returns it with quiet passion.

When he finds his voice again in the early hours of the morning, tucked into Hannibal’s side, Will promises Hannibal he will never leave him. In the stillness that follows a new feeling surfaces inside of him and he presses further.

“Promise that you’ll never leave me,” he begs.

He’s never asked this before, never needed to, but he has absorbed so much of Hannibal now that their devotions and fears have become one and the same.

“I promise,” Hannibal vows, folding Will within himself and never letting go.

Around them, the universe slowly starts to re-knit itself.

It begins with light.

**Author's Note:**

> Ville-Lumière: the City of Lights  
> Lumière de ma vie: light of my life
> 
> If you've read this, I love you. Thank you.
> 
> tumblr: [lovecrimevariations](http://lovecrimevariations.tumblr.com)


End file.
